


Obligatory Actions

by fernybranca



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Dress Up, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Porn With Plot, Succubus, Very Small Plot, obligala
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fernybranca/pseuds/fernybranca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“99.9% sure you’ve got yourself a case of the succubus,” Jenny announced. She was doing an extremely bad job of keeping the glee out of her voice. “They put the sexy whammy on you, then you’ve got to make the beast with two backs. And since usually they’re the only ones who will get in your drooly nasty business, they get you deeper under their spell that way, and pretty soon they’re leading you around by your Little Icky.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obligatory Actions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/gifts).



> Timeline is mid-Season One. If you want to read a truly classic X-files obligala story (and who wouldn’t?) get thee to [“Hardball,” by Missy Pennington](http://x-files.bytewright.com/arcH/Hardball.html). Thanks to [Verity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity) & [imaginarycircus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginarycircus/pseuds/imaginarycircus) for beta reading—this fic would be nothing without them.

“Isn’t it kind of clingy?”

“You got a problem with clingy?” Jenny Mills didn’t look up from shining her big, black army boots. 

“This did not look so clingy in the dressing room,” Abbie said.

“You look fine.”

“I really don’t think it works for work. Or for black tie.”

Jenny waved a rag at her. “Your tits aren’t hanging out and the skirt is knee length. Get over it. Or go put on an ugly-ass pantsuit.”

 _I will not kill my sister._ Abbie checked her reflection one more time. Well, the color was right: wine red, matching her lipstick just so. She knew that color looked good on her. And Jenny was right. All the appropriate bits were covered, even if her legs felt spectacularly on display. “I just don’t usually wear skirts.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Jenny said. “Why can’t you wear your dress uniform?”

Oh, so many reasons. The New York State Police Officers’ New Year’s Gala (NYSPONYG, said “Nigh-Spongy,” according to Luke Morales) was a non-uniformed affair. She’d had enough trouble with her job in the past year; she needed to be on point to start off the new year right. And she’d told Ichabod about it, and he’d said that he missed “balls, routs, card-parties, and other such foolishness, more than I would ever have dreamt in my time,” and she’d told him that he could be her date. And she was pretty certain that women wearing pants to a gala wouldn’t fly with him. Not that he would ever say anything. But he would be silently judging her all night. She knew Ichabod. He was very good at silent judgment.

“Weren’t you picking Icky up at eight?” Jenny asked, innocently. “Or are you just gonna stand there admiring yourself?”

Shit. She was right again. Abbie shoved her feet into her totally impractical heels and grabbed her stupid dinky little purse. “I won’t wait up for you!” Jenny called as she ran out the door. “Don’t do anyone I wouldn’t do!”

* * *

The lights in the cabin appeared to be off, and for a moment Abbie thought that she had the wrong day, or the wrong time, or something. She knocked anyway. The door whipped open as though Ichabod had been just standing there waiting. “Ah, Lieutenant!” he said. “I have been awaiting you and our conveyance. It gives me the greatest pleasure to—ah—”

“It’s too clingy,” Abbie said, “I know. Jenny made me, okay?” She pushed past him and flipped the light switch. He had been using candles again. “You’re gonna kill your eyes doing this, you know that? Or burn the place down. We’ve got electricity for a reason.”

Ichabod pressed his lips into a thin line. He was staring at her breasts. More accurately, he was obviously trying not to stare at her breasts, and failing miserably.

“Look, you want me to go back and put something else on? Is it really that bad?”

He shook his head. “Hardly. You must forgive me. I have seen women in far greater states of undress, and this frock is downright voluminous compared to many that seem to be in fashion in this time. It is simply that I have grown accustomed to seeing you as, as—”

“As a dude?” Abbie raised an eyebrow.

“As a lady in pants, Lieutenant.”

“Right. Well, today is no pants day. We’ll both have to live with it. It isn’t easy walking in these things,” she said, showing off her shoes.

His eyes widened. “If we should encounter the Headless Horseman, or other trouble, you would be nigh incapacitated!”

Abbie shrugged. “If we should encounter the Headless Horseman, I’ll go barefoot.”

Ichabod shook his head, still staring at her high heels. _Well, that’s an improvement over staring at my boobs. Not that it would be so bad if Ichabod stared at my boobs. Except that he’s married. Stop._ “Stays, skirts, shoes. Vanity leads us to ridiculous lengths,” he finally said. “Let us be off.”

* * *

“Now, you must tell me, Lieutenant,” Ichabod whispered theatrically in her ear. “Is there a demimonde in your time?”

“Demimonde?” Abbie asked, distracted. It was not at all clear whether it was a cash bar or whether drink tickets were involved, and if drink tickets, where one could get them.

“Hedonistic persons. Persons at the fringes of polite society. Women of extensive wealth and minimal reputation.” He adjusted his clip-on bow tie in a gesture of embarrassment. 

“Hookers?”

“No-o,” Ichabod hedged. “For an example, how would you describe that woman?”

It was inevitable. He was pointing at Luke’s date. 

“I would describe her as a woman wearing a dress that is smaller than mine,” Abbie said. 

“I have grown accustomed to very small dresses. That is a bandage,” Ichabod retorted.

“Well, it’s a bandage dress, that’s right.” And it was moving their way: Luke had spotted Abbie. “Listen, why don’t you go get us drinks?”

Ichabod was a resourceful kind of guy. He’d figure out how the drinks worked eventually. And then she wouldn’t have to worry about him while she was handling the Luke’s-new-squeeze situation.

The new squeeze’s name was Diana, and she was certainly not a prostitute, however she looked to Ichabod. She was a lawyer, and it was a real Hervé Leger dress she was wearing, as she made certain to point out. She and Luke were going to blow this stupid party and go to a much, much better one later in the night. The champagne there would be real champagne, not California sparkling wine. In fact (she whispered) there was a rumor that Bey and Jay were going to show up.

_In Albany, New York? Sure, whatever you say._

The thing was that Luke was falling for it hook, line, and sinker. And for all Abbie didn’t want Luke, and for all she knew that to be out of his life she’d have to actually stay out of his life, she really didn’t like this woman, and she really didn’t want to talk with her for more than three seconds, and—

“Hey, it’s our song,” she said. “One dance? For old time’s sake?”

“This was never our song,” Luke protested.

“Yes it was. You just don’t remember. Come on.”

This early in the evening, only a couple people were dancing. That was fine by Abbie; it meant that there wasn’t any chance for Luke to get the wrong idea. She could practically see the wheels turning in his head: _sure, Diana’s hot, but maybe she really did make Abbie jealous, and maybe if she’s that jealous I could get some..._ Over Luke’s shoulder, she saw Ichabod returning to where they had stood, rum-and-cokes in hand. Diana took one. Well, if he’d managed to handle the drinks, he could manage to handle the lady.

“So you brought The Crane to Nigh-Spongy,” Luke said.

“Yep,” Abbie said.

“But you and him really aren’t together?”

“Nope.”

Dancing with Luke did remind Abbie of one reason why she’d gone out with him: dude was cut, and he didn’t have any problem with leading the dance, either. It was fun, sometimes, to get to stop being serious and professional and in-charge and to just let someone else do all that—at least for the span of a song. 

“I miss you, Abbie,” Luke said, and nuzzled his nose into the top of her head, pulling her a little closer.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I saw how you were looking at Diana. But, you know, she’s just a friend.”

Abbie pulled away a little bit. “No go.” Luke furrowed his brow. “Look, I’m just trying to save you some time here. I don’t like her, I asked you to dance, great. We still aren’t getting back together.”

He dropped her hand in an exaggerated motion and stepped back. “Fine,” he said. “I’m sorry to importune you, fair and noble lady. I am but the lowliest swain before your exalted feet.”

“Oh, quit it,” she started to say, but then she saw what was happening off to the edge of the dance floor. “...hold on a moment, Luke. I think we’re gonna need to have this conversation later.”

Ichabod appeared to be sticking his tongue down Diana’s Swarovski-swathed throat.

* * *

“99.9% sure you’ve got yourself a case of the succubus,” Jenny announced. She was doing an extremely bad job of keeping the glee out of her voice. “They put the sexy whammy on you, then you’ve got to make the beast with two backs. And since usually they’re the only ones who will get in your drooly nasty business, they get you deeper under their spell that way, and pretty soon they’re leading you around by your Little Icky.”

Ichabod was sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Jenny was at the other end with a book the size of three Bibles. Abbie was pacing and nursing a rum-and-coke, a replacement for the one she never got to have at Nigh-Spongy.

“Which succubus?” Ichabod asked, his voice sounding rather strangled.

“You said her name was Diana? Well, our best bet is Meridiana. She made a deal with Pope Sylvester the Second to help him ascend the papal throne. She offer you any thrones?”

“Not unless you mean the throne of her maidenhood,” Ichabod muttered.

“Pretty sure she wasn’t a maiden,” Jenny said.

Ichabod groaned and dropped his head directly to the tabletop. “What, may I ask, will the ultimate results of this be?”

“Fuck or die,” Jenny said.

He had to be really hurting in order to not object to the word “fuck,” Abbie knew. “Okay, so, but we saved him from her, right? Got him away from the source of the problem? Sleep it off and it’ll all be better in the morning? Ichabod, I’m going to get you some frozen peas for that.”

“‘Sleep it off‘ is not exactly going to work,” Jenny said. 

“Give him some tea made with some witchy herbs and it’ll all be better in the morning?”

“Nope. Look, the grimoire is really really really clear. Do you want to see what happens?”

Abbie threw the peas to Ichabod and walked round to peer over Jenny’s shoulder. The book was clear, all right. Its illustration of a stiff cock was clear and verging on pornographic. Its illustration of that cock engorged far beyond what could possibly be healthy was clear. And the last illustration—of what happened if you resisted—was clear, too. There was a lot of blood. “You see why I don’t want to tell Icky the details?” Jenny whispered.

They both looked over. He was holding the frozen peas to his groin and thumping his forehead against the table, slowly and quietly. It would have been funny if there weren’t tears in his eyes. That made it not funny at all.

“What about the hospital?” Abbie asked. “When someone takes too many Viagra...”

“Do you really think that the hospital is going to be able to fix a demon’s curse?” Jenny asked. “I think this is going to require a more personal touch.” She closed the book, stood up, and casually took her mug of tea to the sink. Then she picked up the go bag that she insisted on keeping right by the door.

That was a truly bad sign.

“A more personal touch,” Abbie said.

“Mm-hm.”

They both looked over at Ichabod. His head was still down on the table between his folded arms. He was breathing deeply, as though he were trying to keep himself under control. He looked like he was almost succeeding, but that wouldn’t last for long. And if Jenny was leaving, and Ichabod had to have sex with someone... Sure, Abbie had imagined Ichabod in bed. She might even have fantasized about it once or twice. But he was married, and he was her partner, and there was absolutely no good that could come of indulging fantasy. Even to save his life.

“Can’t he just, you know, do a load by hand?” she hissed.

Jenny shrugged her shoulders in that totally infuriating way of hers. “Won’t work. Magical energies. You know. And the consequences are _not_ just what I showed you in the book. There's more. Very bad. For you, for him, for the Book of Revelations, for everybody.” Her hand was on the door. 

“Jenny!”

She shrugged again, already halfway out of the apartment. “Your time-traveling English dude,” she said, “your problem. I’m gonna go put this bitch down.”

And that was that.

Abbie stood facing the closed door for a moment. She had to decide how to approach this.

“Lieutenant,” Ichabod said, “You do not need to—”

“Shut up,” she said.

Abbie turned around. Ichabod had risen to his feet. The front of his pants tented out in a way that reminded her of Kenny Harper at the eighth grade dance. It was the opposite of sexy, but it was somehow tender. His hair was a mess, his clothes askew, he was holding a packet of frozen peas, and he was utterly vulnerable. Of course this would be as difficult for him as it was for her. Of course.

Abbie took a deep breath. “Ichabod, I am going to have sex with you. I think it has to be, you know, full sex. Because who knows how succubuses work?” She resisted the long, nervous train of thought that followed after that— _we could just start with a blow job, but then if it wasn’t successful we’d have to go on to the main attraction, and then we’d have another thing to remember when this is all over, another thing between us._

“Succubi,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“The plural of succubus. Is succubi. Lieutenant, this is not what I want. I am a married man.”

What could she possibly say to that?

“Isn’t looking like there’s a whole lot of choice right now,” she said, kicking out of her heels and feeling the cool wood of the floor with her toes. “We’re going to think about this like doing a chore. We’re getting it done. That’s all. Doesn’t look like you’re going to need a whole lot of foreplay, anyway,” and God help them both it certainly didn’t. She could see the muscles cording in his neck with the effort to remain in control. He was thin, but his shoulders were broad, and they strained against the white fabric of his shirt as he struggled to stay at a military attention. “I won’t be offended if you think about someone else,” she said, and even as the words came out she wondered if it were true.

This was Crane, after all. Her own personal time-traveling English dude.

“I do not think that will be a concern,” he ground out. He was holding his arms stiffly at his sides, as though he didn’t trust himself to move. He was grinding his teeth. What was Abbie supposed to get from that? That he would think of her and not Katrina? Jesus, it was sick that she was glad about that.

“So, uh, I guess we should move to the bedroom?” she asked, desperate for another topic. Miscalculation, Abbie realized. The bedroom would be more intimate. She didn’t need to be reminded of this all the time, not when she had to work with him every day for the next seven years. Seven years as laid out of the Book of Revelations. Were Witnesses supposed to have sex lives? Would God come strike her down for defiling His holy word or something? Was this the whole succubus plan? Did the succubus have a plan?

“Damn all this,” Ichabod said, as though he had reached his breaking point, and their positions were reversed. She was the one still as a deer in the headlights. He closed the distance between them in one quick step, the sudden heat and sweat-and-leather scent of him overwhelming her, and she caught just a flash of his wild blue eyes before his lips came down roughly on hers.

In the back of her mind, Abbie had been developing a scenario where Ichabod stayed really, really still, and sat in a chair, and she sort of lowered herself onto his dick without any of their clothes coming off, and then... something... and then they would be done. She had not counted on his hips pressing into hers with his hard cock in clear evidence between their bodies, his hands on her breasts. He was pulling away so he could press his lips into the spot where her neck met her shoulder. He was too tall, she was too small, it was too awkward to be standing, and he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her up and spun her around and put her down on the kitchen table. Then he was nestled into her, between her thighs, and she could feel her skirt riding up and she did not care about whether it was too short or too long or too clingy.

“Christ Jesus Abbie,” he was telling her, “Beautiful.” He fumbled at his waist, she thought he was fumbling with the unfamiliar fly of his trousers, but then she felt his warm hand sliding up her thigh and coming to the cotton fabric of her panties. “Yes Abbie,” he said, and he was sliding his fingers into her, and she was suddenly uncomfortably aware of how wet she had gotten just thinking about the _possibility_ of being forced to fuck Ichabod Crane. She was riding his hand, moving with him, feeling him tense every time her thigh rubbed against his dick and loving that too.

“Come on,” she said, because some part of her knew that he was looking worse, looking wrecked, and that part of her remembered that this was Ichabod, and that their relationship was not going to change in the least, not in the very littlest way. She had no right to this from him. She knew that. She tried to remember all the reasons that this would only happen once, that this was an unfortunate incident, that they would both ignore it forever. It was difficult. Then somehow the fly of his pants was open and his cock was pressed up against her panties and it was impossible.

She reached down between them, sliding her hand between their bellies, and touched the head of his penis. It was velvety-soft and warm, thin, long. She wanted it closer to her. She wanted it now. She pushed her panties aside and guided him into her, spreading her legs wider to welcome him. Just as he notched himself into her she looked up and saw—not his eyes shut, not his head thrown back, no rejection, however small. He was looking at her, looking at her face. Their eyes locked as she angled her hips forward and she saw all her own feelings reflected back at her: the lust, the love, the hesitant hopefulness that was now fulfilled.

She was full of him. She was so full of him. She could feel her whole body wrapping around his, her arms and legs twined and his cock so deep. He whispered to her “yes” and “so good” and “dear heart” and she could tell from the way he moved, the way he jerked his hips, that he was _home_. He found just the place he needed to be—and then she was incoherent too.

When he came he pushed deeper yet. She could feel his cock twitch. She ground down on him and clung tighter. Just for a moment she could cling. Just for a moment. Then the compulsion would wear off. Then he would be disgusted with her, or himself, or both of them.

He lifted his head. She began to squirm away, but he held her hips tight to his, held himself inside of her. “Abbie,” he said, and he lifted his hands to her face, framing it between them. He had tears in his eyes. That was bad, very bad. 

“It’s over, Crane,” she forced herself to say. “I won’t tell.”

“Abbie, I wanted this. Do you hear me?” he asked.

“You said you didn’t. You’re a married man, after all.”

He pressed his lips together. “I did not want to do you dishonor,” he said. “Lieutenant Abigail Mills, I am a greedy man. I want all of you. ”

What could she possibly say to that?

“You had me scared there for a minute,” she sallied. Then: “You know, legally you’re a widower. And I don’t feel dishonored.”

He laughed, a funny half-bark weighted with emotion. “Lieutenant, _silence_.”

“Can we have silence on the bed?”

“...yes.”

* * *

The next morning, Jenny clomped in singing “Chocolate and vanilla swirl...” at the top of her lungs.

“Hey Crazy Eyes, quit it!” Abbie yelled, safely behind her closed and locked bedroom door.

“Lieutenant,” Ichabod said, “you will have to describe the meaning of the word ‘swirl’ in the current vernacular.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Abbie said. “I’ll show you.”


End file.
